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Updated: June 24, 2025
"Has a range down in the Panamint." Then by and by the remark, "Hoh, yes, Gold Gulch, they're down to good pay there. That's on the other side of the Panamint Range. Peters came in yesterday and told me." McTeague turned to the speaker. "Is that a gravel mine?" he asked. "No, no, quartz." "I'm a miner; that's why I asked." "Well I've mined some too.
Probably don't like this talk of killin'. They say he beefed Panamint Charlie, his partner, some years ago and I reckon he's a mite sensitive that a way." "He doesn't seem to know where the mine is," said Solange. "Nor do you, mademoiselle?" "Me?" said Marian, airily. "If I knew where that mine was, believe me, you'd be late looking for it. I'd have been settled on it long ago."
And the price of silver is just half what it was when Old Panamint was on the boom. But that makes no difference, of course?" "Yes, it does," acknowledged Billy whose eyes were gray with rage, "but the flotation process is so much cheaper than milling that it more than evens things up. And there hasn't been a cloudburst in thirteen years but that makes no difference, of course!"
It did not take him long to gather that the country to the east and south of Keeler was a cattle country. Not far off, across a range of hills, was the Panamint Valley, where the big cattle ranges were. Every now and then this name was tossed to and fro across the table in the flow of conversation "Over in the Panamint." "Just going down for a rodeo in the Panamint." "Panamint brands."
This was the treacherous Corkscrew Bend, where the fury of countless cloudbursts had polished the granite walls like a tombstone; but Dusty Rhodes recalled the time when a fine stage-road had threaded its curves and led on up the canyon to old Panamint.
But she ain't goin' to git away with it. She ain't goin' to git the best of old Jim Banker after nineteen years. She ain't goin' to git her knife into Jim. No more'n old Panamint did. I fixed him an' I'll fix her, too. Old Betsy's still good fer a couple a' hunderd yards, I reckon. I'll let her lead me to it er maybe I'll git a chance to ketch her alone."
East away from the Sierras, south from Panamint and Amargosa, east and south many an uncounted mile, is the Country of Lost Borders. Ute, Paiute, Mojave, and Shoshone inhabit its frontiers, and as far into the heart of it as a man dare go. Not the law, but the land sets the limit. Desert is the name it wears upon the maps, but the Indian's is the better word.
In the clear air the snow-covered peaks of the Panamint Range began to be visible, although one hundred miles away. The weary emigrants believed that these peaks belonged to the Sierra Nevadas, and that beyond them lay the green valleys of California. How great was their mistake!
In some mysterious way Wunpost had acquired a horse and mule, both sharp-shod for climbing over rocks, and he had dallied at Hungry Bill's until the first of the stampeders had come in sight on the Panamint trail. Then he had set out up the ridge, riding the horse and packing the mule, and even an Indian trailer had given out and quit without ever bringing them in sight of him again.
We'll keep a lookout, boys, an' when he shows up, he dies!" Then his shrill, evil cry arose again and men turned from their pursuits to look at him. The foam stood on his lips, writhen into a snarl over yellow fangs and his red eyes flamed with insanity. "He'll die! They all dies! Only old Jim don't die. French Pete dies; Panamint dies; that there young Dave dies! But old Jim don't die!"
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